The Streets of Paris
by BlackDawnYaoilover
Summary: Matthew is a French male prostitute that was whisked away from his simple country life to Paris. One night, a handsome man approached him at his corner, asking how much his night was. Instead of taking advantage of the boy, he asks him to be his muse, to paint him and his beauty.
1. Chapter 1

This is a collab between my Matthew and a Francis on my facebook account. It's set about late 1800's early 1900's, around there.  
WARNING  
EXPLICIT MATERIAL IN LATER CHAPTERS (maybe)  
IMPLIED EXPLICIT MATERIAL IN THIS CHAPTER  
CONCEPT OF PROSTITUTION  
KINDA SORTA KIDNAPPING BUT NOT REALLY  
MAYBE SOME ABUSE SPRINKLED IN, THAT REMAINS TO BE SEEN.

Matthew had been raised in a small town, had been a happy and content kid. His family had been on the poor side, but they were happy together and had all they wanted. Their little town had been in southern France, well away from any cities and set back in the forest.

His parents caught sick one winter not too long ago. They tried to reassure him despite his teary protests. He knew what happened when people got sick during the winter. They didn't make it to see the spring. Surely enough, when spring came, Matthew stood at his parent's grave with tears pouring down his face as he tried to keep going, tried to keep strong.

Not long after, a man came to their town. He was handsome, exotic and from a city he called Paris. Matthew had heard of it, but never paid much attention to it because he was content in his peaceful town. Now he had nothing to hold him back and the idea of slipping from his hometown to this wonderful city that the man spoke so beautifully about was just too tempting.

His parents were dead, so there was nothing here for him anymore. The town barely recognized him and could care less if he stayed or went. So Matthew went. Believing in the man's wonderful tales, he packed up and followed him to Paris, thinking he loved him, that he would do anything to give him a better life.

He was so wrong. The man was someone who took young men and women from their lives and forced them into selling their bodies for money, most of which went to him. Each time Matthew had been forced to kneel in front of a man and do such dirty things to him, he felt as if another little part of his soul was being scrubbed away. Thankfully though, none of them had forced themselves on him, content to be given a blowjob, as he was told it was called, and throw their money at him and leave. Some were more frisky, demanding that he play with himself while he did it, even though he didn't like it, and others had taken their pleasure from his.

Every morning he went to the tiny room the man had given him to live in and curled up on his bed feeling empty inside. This wasn't the life he had been promised, the life of luxury and promise that the city stood for. This was disgusting and defiling.

Matthew clutched his thin jacket to him, shivering in the cool wind that blew down the damp French streets. It was nearing midnight, a prime time for people like him. He didn't want to be out here, but he had nowhere else to go, no other skills that would help him obtain a job or pay rent. So he stood at his corner and gazed at the men that strolled down the street, checking out the stock and wondering which one to buy.

Francis, of course, had led a completely different life. Miles away from the little town where this other young boy lived, Francis had been born in Paris in a family from the low bourgeoisie, the rich merchant class. His father owned a shop and had given to Francis a good education and anything he needed to make his way in the world. The young man had lived a fairly comfortable life, but his father did feel a little bothered by the fact that the young man, who was a little bit more of an artist, spent his days with other artists and prostitutes, collecting lovers of both sexes.

All of this changed when his parents both died in the last epidemic. From a frivolous young man who only thought of having fun and sleeping with people, he became a businessman overnight, proving that his father had succeeded in educating him. Feeling the change in his land, Francis had transformed the family's shop in a fancy, warm café in which he sold art supplies of a respectable quality at a fair price.

Since Paris was a town filled with artists at the time, he made a lot of money. And as sad as this may sound, things had not completely changed.

Every night, after a nice, long day providing a refuge where the artists could write, paint or play their music, he celebrated good business by seeking out potential lovers. On this peculiar, cold evening, he decided that he wanted something that wasn't always easy to find: he wanted a male whore.

They were complicated to find, yes, but at the same time, thanks to some connections, he knew where to look. He wandered the streets of the lower quarters, until he finally stumbled upon the street where those poorly dressed men were discretely selling themselves, looked at by some more men. It wasn't long before Francis found Matthew. He stepped in front of him and raised his chin, looking in those eyes, that seemed to be of a peculiar color. He smiled rather seductively, finding him quite attractive. "How much is your night?"

Matthew walked around his territory silently, pausing every now and again at his corner to scan potential clients, sons of influential men sometimes, trying to live on the edge and test their limits, married men who didn't love their wives, young men looking to take the edge off between lovers.

He hated his line of work, but it was all he could do. There were no farms in Paris, nothing to do hard work for, he wasn't needed anywhere but the street corner. Thankfully, not many men wanted him, or at least, they didn't notice him. He had always been kind of invisible in his home town, but he never thought he would be grateful for that attribute until now. Quite a few of his companions had been taken away and returned, some worse for wear and others high or doped up as part of their payment. Some of his peers liked their occupation, liked the constant sex and drugs, even if they always ran the risk of getting sicknesses or hurt by their clients, some even like the pain and asked for it, something Matthew could not understand.

Finally he saw a man approaching him, apparently his first client of the night. He was fairly tall, around his height, but the way he carried him made him seem much taller. He let his chin be tipped up as he had been taught, trying not to look extremely depressed by the thought that he would have to pleasure him. "Two hundred fifty Francs. ($50)" He answered softly, looking up at the handsome man and wondering why he was looking for a prostitute. Couldn't someone that handsome just find someone of better company to have sex with?

Francis thought that the expression he received was quite depressing. This boy didn't look like he wanted to be here, and he probably wasn't on drugs. If he had been, he probably would have laughed or at least, smiled. He felt rather intrigued by the fact that the young man would actually be conscious about what was going on. He pulled away his hand but remained close to the boy.

What a waste: this young man looked quite adorable. He looked like the sort of boy that had led a sheltered life. He even sounded a little provincial. Why had he come to Paris? Was he seeking a better life, only to be deceived in the end. "250 Francs, is this for anything I want, or..." He let his voice trail. He didn't really care, actually. He was already wondering where he would take this boy.

If he enjoyed his presence, maybe he would come back one day and take him home... He found him quite attractive, despite those sad eyes and an occupation that was far from glamorous.

Matthew found it weird that the other man was inspecting him so closely. Was he rethinking buying him? If he was then Matthew would probably go the rest of the night without a customer and the man that brought him here would be mad.

The boy shrugged a bit. "Most don't want much before they move on." He said, wondering if this would be the customer that finally went all the way with him. The prospect was frightening, that someone would pay for that, but he knew it was the way of the world.

"I haven't really been trained in much else though." Matthew knew it might hurt his chances, but he felt he ought to be honest with this handsome man before he tried to go too far and Matthew freaked out. He felt that wasn't a good way to get repeat customers. "B-but I can always try." He tried to sound positive, tried to smile up at him.

Francis finally let go of this boy's chin and rested his hand on his hip. He was quite intrigued when he heard Matthew say that he was not 'trained': an innocent prostitute that might still be a virgin in some areas... He had never seen one. The Frenchman didn't really like taking people's virginity, for some reason. Maybe he thought he wasn't worth it. He loved innocent men and women, but at the same time, he sort of never defiled them. He simply appreciated them from a distance, and might sometimes tease them.

But then again, it made them (and Matthew) much more desirable. But it was already bothering him, and so he pushed this thought at the back of his mind and simply gestured for the boy to follow. "Half now, half later." He took out his wallet and gave him 125 Francs, before he took his hand and led him to one of those rather crappy hotels that didn't seem to have much more of a purpose then to make sure prostitutes were alone with their clients. He paid the receptionist and took the lovely young man up to one of the rooms. It wasn't dirty, but at the same time it didn't look that clean. It showed that they were not supposed to spend the night there. He turned on the only light in the room, and despite it it was still quite dark inside. He then looked at the lovely young man. "I would like you to undress. Slowly." With a confident smile, he went to sit on the bed. He was still thinking about what he would do to this young man...

This incredibly handsome man was touching him, his hip, his hand, leading him to a well known hotel that the prostitutes used for their clients. Matthew had only been there a few times because it was usually for those that were sleeping with their clients. The blond was usually on his knees in an alley with strange hands in his hair.

He was shocked when the man gave him half the money up front. Wasn't he afraid that he would run off with it without doing what he said? He was so odd, this man. Matthew trailed alongside him, his hand feeling small in the other's larger one. What was he after? He didn't seem like the kind that was simply there to fuck and run. This man had a deeper sense than that.

Matthew took in the dingy room, ready to decline the other if he offered him any drugs. He had never liked the idea of not being able to control himself, so he never indulged when his clients offered him any. But he didn't, he simply cut on the light and asked him to strip for him. The young man tilted his head at him, wondering at his attitude before hooking his slim fingers under the hem of his plain shirt, slipping it over his head slowly, catching his glasses before they fell off. His pale skin, once tanned from work in the fields, reflected the dim light from the lamp. He toed off his shoddy boots and undid his belt, sliding his trousers down and pulling them off. There was no real enthusiasm in the actions, but he was doing exactly what the other man had asked for, he just wasn't taking liberties with it. When he was done, having hesitated at his underwear, he stood shyly in front of him, hands clasped daintily before him.

Francis was looking at him.  
His eyes followed every gesture, and he did his best not to let anything show in his expression. This torso was rather muscular and this skin still had the healthy color of someone from the countryside who worked in fields and with animals. Those legs were rather thin, but healthy looking. Maybe he had arrived in Paris recently. Despite this healthy appearance, there was something fragile about the boy. Was it those lovely but dull blue eyes turned elsewhere? Or maybe it was his faintly reddened cheeks?

More than looking at him, Francis was caressing every muscle, every bit of skin, every single hair on this young man's lovely body. He loved how this boy looked. He loved how the dim light on the room reflected on this skin that looked strangely beautiful despite the harsh manual labor of field workers. He stood and approached the lovely boy, gently placing a hand on his wrists before pulling them away, revealing a nice manhood. It had a respectable length, but he would need to see it in erection before doing anything else. He then let go of those wrists to turn the boy around. He looked at his bottom, resisting the urge to run his fingers on its skin. He then turned him around again, looking in those eyes.

There was a rather uncomfortable silence. Even if this boy was a prostitute, Francis suddenly had his doubts. This lovely young man was worth more than that. He gently cupped Matthew's cheek in his hand, caressing it with a thumb. His finger eventually caressed those lips. He took a deep breath and pulled away. "Will you be at the same spot tomorrow?"

Matthew tried not to think of anything relating to the dingy hotel room he was in and the man currently tracing every part of him that he could see as if he were the Mona Lisa. It was odd to have someone looking at him so intently, almost studying his body. He thought of his home back in the little village, wishing desperately that he hadn't left, that he had stayed and forged ahead to make the rest of the village accept and notice him. If he worked hard, he could have been the mayor or the cobbler or silversmith even, but he had thrown all the respect of his hometown away when he left with that wretched man.

The boy's cheek grew warmer as his hands were pulled away, holding them loose beside his side as he was inspected. He let himself be turned, pushing down a moment of panic as he was over looked. Thankfully he was turned back away. The other's blue eyes looked troubled, something Matthew only saw in those of his fellow prostitutes. Gentle fingers cupped his cheek and surprised the boy with the tender touch as his skin was stroked. This wasn't usually how it went. The finger traveled downward, stroking over his full lips lightly. Then everything was gone, the fingers on his cheek, the thumb on his lips, the heat from the other's body, and Matthew was even more confused.

The same spot? "Um, yes. I'm there every day." The blond dipped his head in a nod, trying to figure out what he was doing. He had paid him half of what he asked for before he even did anything, he had asked him to strip and then practically ate him up with his eyes, now he was asking if he would be at his corner again the next day. Even as a country boy, Matthew had gotten a good education, but now he felt stupidly confused at the other man's actions. "I usually get there around sundown." That was when the clients came to find them.

Francis kept glancing at this nude body with a form of envy. Because in the end, it was more envy than anything else. For a moment there, he felt the intense desire to be this boy's first. He wanted to be the first man to put his manhood in this still virginal anus. He wanted to hold him close and cover him in kisses. He wanted him near. Francis sighed softly and pulled the other close, smelling his hair. Intoxicating. He remained like this, for a moment, letting his hands wander on the other's skin. Warm and soft, it was. He then pulled away and sat on the bed again. "Do you sometimes go to your client's home?"

Matthew felt the urge to cover up again as the man kept looking him over. None of the other men had ever paid so much attention to him when he was servicing them, they always paid more attention to their own pleasure. He blushed when he was pulled to the other's broad chest, fighting off the urge to pull away as his hair was sniffed. What the hell was up with this man? Matthew bit his lip lightly as hands roamed over his skin, fearing that this was the moment when the other would finally want to start. But he pulled away and the boy shoved down a sigh of relief, watching as his client sat down on the bed. "Oui, sometimes. But that's extra because of the risk and distance."

Francis kept looking at him, quiet now. He didn't mind paying an extra, of course not. But all of this situation was absurd. Delightful, but absurd. He ended up getting on his feet. "Put on your clothes. I'd like you to come with me." He went towards the door, looking at the other dress. "What's this extra? How much do you want?"

Suddenly, he wanted a bit more than sex. He wanted this young man to come and spend a few hours at his place. Francis was also an artist, after all, and he wanted this boy to become his muse. He didn't want to tell the other boy, though. He feared that he might simply refuse since it was an unorthodox thing for male prostitutes to do. But Francis himself didn't mind. He had tons of money, he could do whatever he wanted.

"Three hundred. ($75)" Matthew said, severely confused as he redressed himself. The boy was seriously considering just slipping away while the other wasn't looking, even if he had already paid him half. This was just getting too weird. To him the extra money usually wasn't worth the risk of going to his clients' houses. What if they tried to hold him there?

But he wasn't sure how many clients he would have tonight, and the man had told him to bring in more money. With a quiet sigh, he resigned himself to the risk and steeled himself to follow this odd man. Maybe things wouldn't be as bad as he was fearing they would be. He just had to think of something happy and he could get through it.

Of course, Francis had no such plans in mind. He wasn't going to hold him, he wasn't going to hurt him, he wasn't even sure he wanted to defile him on this night, even if he felt the sudden desire to be the first to penetrate this boy. "Well, this is a reasonable price..."

He smiled warmly and locked arms with the young man, as he walked towards his apartment. He actually inhabited the spce on the second floor of the café he managed. "Say... what led you to Paris?"

Matthew was startled when he said it was reasonable. Most clients thought it wasn't worth their money and just pulled them into the nearest alley. Was this man some sort of business man? Did he have a lot of money, then?

The little blond walked beside him uncertainly, nearly jumping when he hooked their arms together. But he relaxed when he didn't try anything besides that. Maybe he ought to calm down and enjoy not being forced on his knees? "Well..." He really didn't want to answer that question and he usually wasn't asked any question besides how much he cost and, if he got a really nice client, they would ask instead of order. "Paris has always intrigued me. It's so beautiful and lovely here. And there's always the parks to remind me of home if I get homesick."

Francis kept glancing at the other male, rather curious. At the mention of the park, he realized that the boy really was from the countryside. He smiled warmly and walked slowly with the other, almost as if they were lovers strolling romantically, under the stars. Of course, it sure wasn't the case. "Ah, yes, Paris is a wonderful city, is it not? I was born here, you see, and I inhabit my parent's estate. My father owned a shop and he gave it to me." He wondered why he was telling his life to the other, but he somehow felt at ease with the boy.

After a while, they found themselves in front of a lovely mansion. It was tal and white, with finely crafted window and a few plants. He opened the door and welcomed the boy inside. "Here we are, this is my humble home. Please do come with me." He led him up the wooden stairs, up to his room.

Matthew listened as the other man spoke, finding that he liked the sound of his voice as they walked towards the upper part of the city. It felt serene in a way that he hadn't felt since he had come to the city. Maybe Paris wasn't so bad. Not if people like this were around. Hopefully he wasn't a creep or anything.

The blond bit back a gasp of astonishment when they came up to the large house, feeling tiny next to it. He couldn't go into a house that nice, he would only soil it. But the man's grip on him wouldn't allow him to break away. And he still needed the money. Ooooh he didn't want to go in there. "I-I shouldn't-" He broke off when the older man didn't seem to hear him, leading him into the mansion that was at least twenty times bigger than his little family's house in the countryside. The inside was twice as extravagant as he could imagine, even more so.

Matthew felt like he was dirtying up the floor just by walking on it. The stairs looked like they were crafted by a master and he couldn't bring himself to touch the handrail as they walked up them to the bedroom. That was when he started getting anxious again. What was going to happen here?

Francis could feel just how nervous the young man was. He stopped all of a sudden and looked at him. "It might be too late to ask, but... how old are you exactly?" He didn't think the teenager was under sixteen. Francis himself drew the line at fifteen, and only if the people were mature, meaning boys with an adult voice and girls with curves. Maybe he had a lot of love to give, but he preferred not touching people under 15.

Oh well, he had decided to keep this boy. The room, which used to be his parents', was rather nice, large and classy, but in a way it could be renovated: it still had this extravagant, heavy Rococo style that was reminiscent of the monarchy. Francis might have been interested in new things, but he was a romantic, and in his opinion, there was a certain "grandeur" about the Rococo style which nothing could replace.

The bed looked extremely expensive, the base made of a pale but solid wood. The blankets were of a royal blue, as deep as the first color of the French flag. He looked once more at the boy. "Take off your clothes. I need to go in the next room over. Make yourself comfortable." He spun around and left the room. He went to another room, where he had left his paint, canvas and other artist materials. He gathered the colors he would need and headed back to the room.

Matthew was entranced by the sheer majesty of the room he stepped into. It was like the pictures in the storybook that he had treasured back in his hometown, almost too beautiful to be real, as if the page would tear if he touched the soft bed or treaded too hard on the woven rug that covered part of the wood floor. He was so humbled by the obvious wealth in the room, he almost didn't hear the man's question, by the time he realized that he wanted him to reply, he was being told to bare himself again and the man was disappearing into the other room.

The little blond shifted nervously, knowing he had to, the older blond had already paid half, well what had been half. Could he really do something so lewd as what his clients wanted in such a glorious room? Could he defile such pristine silk blankets? His small hands trembling a little, he bent over and removed his worn boots, his trousers and thin jacket and shirt following after. He folded them neatly, wanting to remain as civil as he could even if he was a male prostitute, setting them against a wall.

He turned around when the man returned, wrapping his arms around his thin middle. "I-I'm in my eighteenth year." He said quietly, confused when he saw the paints in the other man's hands. "What are you doing?" Did he have some sort of weird fetish or something?

When Francis came back, he somehow found it strange that the boy was still standing. He had not done as told, but it was fine. As he was starting to set his canvas, he heard the other boy answer the previous question. "What? Oh, you are eighteen years old?" Excellent, that was approximately the age of all muses.

When finally the canvas was set, he started placing the lights, such as lighting candles and dimming fixtures. He then looked at the boy. The light of the flames rendered this skin healthy looking, delicious, almost golden. He loved how this look. "I would like for you to be my model tonight." He gently pushed the boy on the bed, making him sit. He then had him lie down. "Take a comfortable position. I would like to be able to paint your features."

He then went behind the canvas, looking at this warm, living piece of art. At the same time, he knew the boy was barely alive. The poor child was probably dead inside thanks to his occupations.

Though he was confused as to why the other was setting up canvas, he didn't speak up again, simply watching him as he walked around lighting the numerous candles. As the light changed, he noticed that it danced across his skin, making it look like it was tan and healthy instead of pale and thin.

"Model?" Matthew asked, slowly sitting down at the other's hands. He laid back at his guidance, swinging his dainty feet up onto the bed. "Paint me? Why would you want to paint me?" I'm only a prostitute... He left that unsaid though, because it hurt him to even say it. But he curled up a little, resting his head on the plush pillow so that his long hair splayed out inadvertently. The boy looked at the man behind the canvas, curling up a bit more, almost hiding behind his knees as he curled his hands into loose fists. The thought of being painted made him nervous, feeling that he wasn't good enough to be immortalized in paint.

Francis noticed quite fast that the other boy looked nervous. He went to stand at the end of the bed. "You might have to stay still for quite a while, so you should choose a comfortable posture." He remained quiet for a moment, before he tried to get the boy to lie on his back. "Would you rather have my privates in your throat?"

He then went back behind the canvas. What a lovely boy. He wished he wasn't so shy, and so confused. What he was asking was simple, though. He only wanted him to remain still while he painted him. Already he was mixing paint, trying to find the exact shade of this honey blonde hair.

Matthew bit his lip gently when the other came to the end of the bed, wondering if he had done something wrong. He let himself be positioned on his back, feeling the urge to curl up again. It was the way he always slept, so it was customary for him to curl up on his side whenever he was in a bed. But if he was wanted on his back, then he would stay.

The boy blushed modestly, glancing away shamefully. He didn't like doing such things with other men, but he was practically forced into it and he didn't have another choice. "No..." The blond murmured quietly, shaking his head a little.

When the other moved away, he turned back, folding his hands over his chest and curling his legs just a little so they weren't straight out. "But why do you want to paint me?"

Francis decided that it was fine, in the end. The boy was shy, it was a part of him. And so, what he depicted on his canvas was this display of candid timidity. He skillfully depicted the boy's lovely eyes, healthy skin and reddened cheeks. He almost lovingly drew this body, his eyes lingering on the lovely boy, who waited in the bed.

It took quite a while, but finally the painting was done. He just hoped that if he kept doing this, the young man would grow used to it and manage to stop being so shy. He gestured for the boy to come and see the drawing. "Come, and tell me what you think."

Matthew waited patiently, naturally quiet as he watched the man paint him. It was odd to think that he was drawing his own image on that canvas, and because he thought that he was beautiful enough to paint. It didn't make sense to him, but he supposed the other was allowed to think what he wanted.

Every time his blush would die down, the man would glance back at him, practically devouring him with his brilliant eyes and his cheeks would redden again. Feeling someone look at him like that was embarrassing, but he felt more relaxed than he ever had with any of his other clients. When the man called him over, he got up, timidly coming over and peering at the painting. With a soft gasp, his eyes scanned the painting. It was beautiful, the way the light shone over his skin, how it actually looked realistic. "That doesn't look like me." He blushed, looking at the beautiful man in the painting. The subject was much prettier than he was.

Francis watched the other boy's reaction with a smile, and this smile only grew wider when he heard the gasp. A pleasant surprise, it seemed like it was. It definitely made Francis more confident about his own talent.

At the comment of the other boy, he raised a brow, looked at the painting, than at the boy, did so a few times, wondering why he was saying this. He put his paintbrush down and crossed his arms, sitting back in his chair. "I guess you're right. It doesn't do you justice. You are much more lovely." He said those last words with a warm smile. He stood and carefully pulled the canvas to a corner of the room, allowing it to dry. He looked at it for a moment, satisfied, before he looked back at Matthew. "I would like to draw you again, maybe tomorrow."

Matthew felt an inexplicable disappointment when the other agreed with him, quickly pulling himself together. This man obviously needed glasses. But could someone who couldn't see really paint so magnificently? With a quiet huff of breath, he watched him gingerly take the canvas and set it in the corner, his gaze drawn between the beautiful painting and the handsome man.

"Tomorrow?" He asked, surprised. "Um, well I have to do my job tomorrow." The young man fidgeted a bit, hating to think of what he did as a 'job' of any sort. "I don't know if I'll have the time to let you paint me again."

Francis listened to the boy, keeping rather quiet for a moment, which was always a tad strange for the French. He was letting his mind wander, since the boy was standing there, nude, in plain sight. What a lovely boy. He just wished he could have been, like other prostitutes, less shy. But Matthew looked like he wanted to disappear in the walls. Yet he could only imagine himself running his hands on a skin that wasn't made for the street under a sickly Parisian moon. He wanted to kiss those lips, that should have not been reserved for filthy nether regions.

It took a while, but he came out of his own reflections and managed a nice, warm smile to the other boy. "Fine. Then I will find you tomorrow again." He looked in his pockets and handed the boy the money he owed him, before he kissed him on both cheeks. "Thank you for bearing with me. I can't wait to have you here again." He escorted him back to the door.

Matthew tilted his head to the side curiously, wondering at the faraway look in the other's eyes. He didn't seem to be paying all his attention to his words, instead his eyes tracked over his skin, leaving him tingling as they slid away. No one had ever looked at him like that, it was not without lust, but there was something deeper that his other clients didn't have.

"Tomorrow?" He asked again, wondering if he really meant it. "I suppose I'll be at the same corner." It was certainly a better alternative than escorting someone into a dark alley to take care of what their mistress wouldn't. "Oh! Wait! Can I get my clothes?" The blond asked, his face lighting up like a spark in a fireplace. Still naked, the older male was trying to lead him out of his house. His long fingers clutched the money that he wouldn't get even a piece of, making sure it wouldn't slip out.

He had completely forgotten about the boy's nakedness. It sure made him laugh. How foolish of himself. "Of course!" When the boy was fully dressed and had taken the money, he resumed taking him back to the door. "One day, we will have dinner. And I will treat you better than any man has ever treated you." And with that he opened the door and waited for the boy to leave.

The fact that the other was so comfortable with his bare skin made him blush, but he allowed himself to be led back to his clothes and he pocketed the money once he was dressed. "Ah, dinner?" He looked startled at the idea. "You wish to take me out to dinner? I'm afraid I won't have the money." He said, shifting on his heels. The idea was marvelous, but he simply couldn't afford it.

Francis smiled at the boy's innocent questions. "Oh, don't worry. I will be the one paying. Just deduct the meal off my tab." He laughed rather heartily and waited for the sweet boy to leave or to ask for more. What an adorable kid, he really wanted to get to know him better. Usually, he wasn't interested like this in prostitutes. But this one... this one had something interesting.

Matthew opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. How could he turn down such a generous offer without hurting the other's feelings? "Alright." He smiled softly and nodded. "I have to get going now." The blond said quietly, bobbing a quick bow to the other before heading back to his corner. He glanced back over his shoulder as he paused at the gate before moving on.

Francis was quite happy to hear the boy agree with the idea, knowing very well that he possibly felt extremely awkward about it. He watched with a smile as the boy walked to the gates, waved when he turned to look at him, and then shut the doors, and locked them. He took a deep breath and looked at the incredibly quiet home. He needed to fill it up with more people. A mansion was depressing when it housed only one man, especially since most of his things could have filled one or two rooms in this house, and he barely used more than four of the many rooms: to sleep, to bathe, to eat, and to paint. That was it.

He slowly walked up the stairs, his hand caressing the ramps, his mind elsewhere. He wanted to keep seeing Matthew. Maybe the boy would agree to help fill in the empty house. How romantic was this? An illicit affair between two men resulting in a solitary cohabitation in a sumptuous manor. How delicious.

He went to look at the painting of the boy, judging it critically. Why hadn't Matthew liked it? To him, it was just fine: a lovely reproduction of a lovely muse. Yet, the more he looked at it, the more he felt disgusted. 'He was right. It is ugly. I failed to capture the essence of the boy'. Was it right? After all, he had faithfully drawn the boy's shyness, despite him being nude.

It bothered him, but eventually he undressed and went to bed. He was pleased to see that the sheets still smelled like the unlikely prostitute. It made him smile. With thoughts of the blonde boy, he masturbated and then fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew trailed back to his lonely corner perch, the moonlight illuminating his way as the streetlights had burned out long ago. There wouldn't be many clients this late at night, being well past midnight, but those desperate enough stood at their haunts well into the night, waiting for the next potential stack of money.

Even as Matthew walked the short circuit, his thoughts were elsewhere, on the handsome man who had painted him. What did he see in him? He was just a peasant from the country, brought here to this glorious and dark city in the lowest time of his life. To him, he didn't seem very outstanding or worthy of being put on a canvas. Paintings were supposed to be of beautiful things, lovely young women and towering cathedrals, not of poor prostitutes that happened into this city.

The blond focused again when he almost tripped over a stone and paid closer attention to where he was walking. No one had looked his way in a long time and he was both glad and trepidatious. What if the man who had brought him here thought he hadn't earned enough money? Though, the blond he had gone with had paid more than what he ought to have, seeing as he had just laid on his fine sheets and been painted.

Shaking his thoughts from the man, he looked up as a shadow crossed his path and a deep voice asked for his time. With a soft, internal, sigh, he followed him into the alley and dropped to his knees.

Francis dreamt of the lovely boy. t was a rather normal and boring dream. He was tending to his café, which was bustling with activity, but the only customer who had a face and who spoke was Matthew. He was whispering sweet nothings, quiet and shy, sipping on a coffee that had more sugar than water. He woke up when the boy had started talking about the shrimps he kept in captivity. The Frenchman remained in his bed for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. He knew that he needed the boy to come to the cafe. He was going to draw him there. Oh, already he was tingling in excitement.

Was it because he was inspired for another drawing? Was it because he was going to see the lovely, meek boy again? He didn't know.

After he washed his face, brushed his hair and tied it up, the man dressed for the day, and unconsciously dressed in a casual and elegant way. Deep inside himself, he probably just wanted to impress the young man. When he was done, he went to the shop he owned, opened the doors and soon welcomed the artists that comprised most of his clientèle. The day went by rather fast, and soon enough it was night again. Francis bid farewell to the artists that were left. Usually, he didn't close his establishment, but he needed it for something special on this evening. When he was home, there usually was an employee there to tend to things while he was away. After all, it was during the night that the artists were cold. They were disappointed, but at the same time, they didn't mind.

When midnight rang, Francis left for the streets, strolling through the alleys he had taken the night before. He just hoped the boy would still be there, where he had met him.

Matthew managed to fall onto his cot around daybreak, curling up on his side as he usually did. It was difficult to keep his eyes open and he had somehow gathered more clients than usual nearer to dawn. He would usually only have about five men per night, give or take, and the number didn't waver that much. But last night he had had nearly fifteen different men ask for his time after Francis bid him adieu around midnight. Though it had exhausted him, do you realize how much energy that takes?, the man that brought him here was ecstatic with the money he brought in. He had promised him a good meal that night and shoved him off to bed so he could count the papers greedily. A small handful was handed to his hopeful face and he left as quickly as he could with the money, hording it away where none of the other men could find it.

When he closed his eyes, he dreamed. It was highly unusual for him, but this seemed to be an unusual night. He was in a warm place, most of what he saw were just flashes or feelings that flashed away. It was comfortable in this place and he felt relaxed, a soft smile on his face as colors shifted in front of him. There was an air of comradery around him and he melted into the atmosphere thankfully. Too soon the coldness of his cot sank into his bones against and he shivered, the impressionistic picture fading away with a drawn out sigh.

The boy was shaken awake around noon and he got up groggily to do his chores and help. He was told to go to his corner as night began to darken and he sighed, pulling on his thin jacket and heading out. There were more people tonight and he found a client within a few minutes of heading out. They disappeared into a nearby alley, the blond feeling reluctant.

Strangely enough, Francis felt disappointed. He was sad that the boy wasn't there. He waited for a moment, he was even offered a blow job from another prostitute, but he turned down the offer, even if it was quite tempting. While awaiting the boy, he started wandering around the nearby streets. He was walking slowly, kicking trash he could kick, but soon he just walked. He then heard a sound coming from the nearest alleyway. He listened to it and smirked, vaguely amused. He could hear a man moaning and grunting orders, such as 'Faster... yes, faster... use only your mouth... yes...' It was such a quiet night that Francis could hear the sound of suction coming from the poor soul who was dirtying their knees. He decided to take a peek, being a bit of a voyeur. He passed his head and looked at the scene. But as soon as he recognized who performing fellatio on the man, he felt his heart sink.

His muse was pleasuring another man.

It made him strangely angry. And so, with a glare, he stepped in the street and marched towards them. When the guy saw him, he barely reacted, too focused on the oral sex he was receiving. What caught his attention, though, was the punch he received to the face. "Hey! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Francis gesture for the guy to leave. "What do you think you're doing? And in public?!" He punched the guy's stomach, and he decided not to stay there and mess with that crazy bastard. Francis then looked at Matthew and helped him up. "Good evening."

As the man led him into the alley, Matthew followed timidly, waiting until he found a good spot to lean against and motion him forward. He stepped up to the man, not meeting his eyes as he undid his trousers quickly. The men who bought him wanted something quick and good, there was no room for fumbling or stalling.

The man already had a sizable bulge in the cloth by the time Matthew got the strings undone, probably eager for this. He urged him on in a gruff voice, reminding him that he had paid for pleasure, not for him to mess around. The boy dipped his head and nodded, his bangs falling in front of his eyes as he tugged his trousers down his thighs. At least this man wasn't rough or mean like some were and he was decent enough to look at, even though he could do with a bath. But so could Matthew, so he wasn't going to complain, especially when he paid in advance.

He ended up on his knees in front of him, his hands wrapped around a decent sized member. It was always made him feel dirty to touch someone else like this, and thankfully there were few women who came down here that weren't prostitutes like himself. He didn't think he could do something like this to a woman.

A hand on the back of his head told him the man was tiring of the handjob and he took a steadying breath and parted his lips, tentatively swirling his tongue around the head and watching the man twitch at the sensation. The blond pumped his base as he took the head into his mouth, licking and sucking as he took more in. Soon he was able to get all of the shaft in his mouth, bobbing his head back and forth as the man's breath grew shorter and faster. He deepthroated him, squeezing his eyes shut as he forced himself not to gag around the mouthful.

Distantly, he heard footsteps and felt his cheek flush at the thought of someone else seeing him like this, but he pushed it aside to concentrate on his client. That is, until he was punched hard enough to force him out of the young blond's mouth. Matthew snapped his eyes open, staring in surprise as the man from the night before punched the one he had been pleasuring in the stomach. He watched his charge take off into the night, tucking himself back in hurriedly, jaw hanging open in shock. A hand on his arm helped him up and then the other had the gall to tell him good evening. "Yo-you! What do you think you're doing?!" He gawked at him, eyes wide. "That was my client!"

Francis wasn't expecting the other boy to react like this. He was stunned by the boy's angry tone of voice. Had he made a mistake? Should he have waited for his turn, patiently? He put his hands in his pockets, rather nonchalant, but he really felt guilty for a moment. This moment didn't last long, though. He simply shrugged, looking positively undisturbed. "He paid you before, didn't he?" He then took out some money from his pocket. "Take it, half the price of your evening. I bet I'm a better customer." He winked teasingly and took the boy's arm, already leading him towards the café.

Matthew stayed angry for about five seconds, more shocked than anything over what he had done. Though, he was rather flattered that the other had tried to defend him like that, even if the man had been his client. He couldn't let him get off so easily though, it'd go right to his head.

"That's not the problem." He tried to protest, sighing as he took the money. "Do you mean my whole evening?" The boy looked startled. Surely he didn't mean to keep him that long. Did he want to do another painting or something? Following beside him, he looked up at his profile, looping his arm more comfortably through the other's arm. This man really was handsome. He put any other client he had ever had to shame. What could he ever want with a cheap prostitute that lives in the slums?

Matthew turned back to their walk, thinking to himself as they strode toward the better part of town. Was he taking him back to his house again? Or somewhere different?

Francis didn't bother to ask what the problem was, according to Matthew. He had been paid, he didn't even have to finish performing oral sex on this other man... Where was it problematic? Did Matthew like kneeling in dirty alleys to swallow cum? He didn't really want to know. He simply decided to answer the boy. "The whole evening... hm, maybe." He smiled quite fondly.

Maybe he had stopped that other man out of jealousy. Or maybe he had simply wanted to be some sort of hero. It was probably a bit of both. Francis was far from being a jealous lover, but for some reason, he didn't want anyone else to have Matthew. Selfish desire.

The little stroll ended once they found themselves in front of a lovely, warm café. The blinds had been pulled, which made it very discreet. "Here we are!" He unlocked the door and opened it, gesturing for Matthew to go in first. "Welcome to my small establishment." It looked very sober, with its dark wooden tables and it's pale, yellowish walls. There were a few paintings here and there, from customers who couldn't pay with money. There were also things for sale, such as empty canvasses and new tubes of paint. "Please sit. What can I offer you? Food? Drink? Don't be shy. It's on the house." He winked and pulled the shy boy to the counter, where he had him sit.

Matthew blinked once the other announced their arrival. They weren't terribly far from where he had taken him the night before. At least, he didn't think so. He knew they were on the upper end, that was about it. He hadn't been up here enough to know his way around.

He entered the little cafe, looking around with a natural curiosity. The place was warm and inviting, despite being closed up for the night. The blank canvasses made him feel as if someone would walk in and pick up a paint brush and start painting at any moment.

"It's...quite lovely." The blond said, perching on the edge of the stool at the man's insistence. He chewed his lip for a moment, dredging up his confidence. "Um, I never got your name...I'm Matthew." He swallowed the knot in his throat that showed up from revealing personal information like that with a stranger. Even if he had seen more of him than he really was comfortable with. "And I've already eaten. Thank you, though." Ignoring the fact completely that he had only had a thin broth and a chunk of bread and cheese that had been given to him by a maid that worked in his "house".

Francis didn't even wait for his guest to say he wanted anything, he was already whipping out some food. They were mainly snacks, but it was much better than nothing. After all, a lot of artists were too absorbed into their art to remember that they had a meal next to them. Usually they had a pastry and some coffee, and sometimes they didn't even finish the foods, they were so absorbed in whatever it was they were painting or writing. Authors, typically, were more likely to forget.

Francis felt quite happy when the boy said he liked how the place looked. After all, he was proud of the way the café had turned out. He put some food and warm coffee on the counter, and then smiles when he heard the boy's name. He looked at him and smiled warmly. "It's a pleasure." He held out his hand, expecting Matthew to take it and shake it. "My name is Francis."

Matthew didn't complain when the other ignored the fact that he had said that he'd already eaten. It was already smelling too good to decline and the hungry boy wasn't going to stop him if he got free food out of it. His stomach rumbled softly as he watched the other fix the food, playing with a stray napkin, pleating the fabric beneath his long fingers.

He was distracted from the food that he was salivating over when the man offered his hand. "Francis? I like that name." He smiled sweetly, taking the man's - Francis' - hand and shaking it gently. The boy took his hand back, lingering for a moment, before picking up a fork and beginning to dig into the food. "This is delicious." The comment was off-handed, but true, as the blond licked his lips and speared another mouthful. "So, I have to ask, why do you keep bringing me to places like this? I mean, I expected you to...you know, but last night you just painted me and had me leave. It confused me honestly."

Francis firmly held the hand that met his. He shook it nicely, always glad to show people a professional hand shake. After all, the way he interacted with people had to be courteous and flawless. Alright, he had fought off a man earlier, but usually, he treated others like business partners. Francis then watched as the young man started to eat. He soon joined the other in this activity and bit into some snacks. It was then that the question came.

Why indeed was he taking the boy home and in this café, his secondary home? Why had he not simply engaged in sex with this now confused boy? He raised a brow. "Would you have preferred I take you to an alley and shove my privates down your throat?" He paused and looked away, thinking about it. He didn't like to explain such things, and so he nervously took a pencil and some paper, and he started to draw, mindlessly. His eyes, though, kept trying to find the younger man's. "My family was rich. My father owned this place, but he was more of a nobleman. A member of the bourgeoisie. Sadly, his only son is me, and I never got along with him, since I'm more of an artist. Imagine the shame." He took a deep breath, his scribbles starting to take form. "I admit I spent a lot of time having sex with men and women. Such an urge came over me when I found you." He smiled a little. "But then... I thought you looked extremely attractive, but not only as a prostitute. You possess a peculiar charm. I want to immortalize it." He finally stopped drawing. What he had drawn were two people, a man and a woman. She had a benevolent smile and long, pale locks. The man looked much more severe and strict. One could have guessed it was his family. "To me, you are a muse. I wish to continue and use you as fuel for my imagination."

Matthew flushed shamefully at the suggestion. Of course he didn't want to be on his knees in a filthy alleyway, but he usually didn't have a choice in the matter. He had to pay the man who had taken him here and there was nothing else he could do. There was nothing to farm in the city, no orchards to keep or chickens or flocks to protect. Nothing he knew was of value here. Just like Francis' talent wouldn't be at all useful on a farm. His family would berate him for wasting cloth, wood, dyes and other things like that, for art when they could otherwise be used for survival.

Sex, oral in particular, was the only thing Matthew was good for now. He had no family to help him and no friends to rely on. But here was this crazy man saying he didn't want to use him for sex. The boy listened to the brief family history, aching with the wish that his father could have been a part of that fabulous select portion of humanity. Then he wouldn't have had to work the land from morning to night for half the crop they had planted and he wouldn't have stood at his parents' graves when Spring came along. They could have gotten a doctor, one that would have given them medicine unavailable in their remote village. They would have gotten better and not died and Matthew wouldn't be pleasuring men in dark alleys.

He watched the older man draw, entranced by the fluid way his fingers moved as they guided his pencil across the paper, creating figures out of nothing but scratches of graphite. It was beautiful the way he did it, absently, as if he had all the time in the world and nothing to do aside from it. "So...you want to draw, and paint, because...you've seen me?" He looked fairly confused by the aspect of a muse. "But surely you would gain more from someone who wasn't...someone better. There's nothing about me worthy of immortalizing on anything." Matthew shook his head, pulling his small hands back into his lap and fidgeting with them.

When Francis was done with his picture, he tore it to pieces and threw it away. He then started eating a croissant, listening to what Matthew had to say. He then chuckled softly. "You have a low self esteem. You don't see your worth. I think you are perfectly attractive and handsome. Besides, I don't choose who my muse it. You just happen to inspire me." He finished eating his croissant and took another paper, on which he started to do a quick sketch of Matthew eating. "You look healthy and strong. And I love the color of your hair. Your eyes are bright and filled with a surprising innocence and sweetness. You are much more attractive than you think."

It wasn't long before he could show the simple drawing. It looked a little silly. On it, Matthew had a clueless expression and he was eating some cookies. "I guess I shouldn't ask, but... where is your family?"

He really was crazy. This beautiful artist thought he was attractive and handsome and worthy of drawing and inspiring him. Matthew couldn't keep a dark blush off his cheeks, dunking his head in embarrassment. "I'm not sure if you're in your right mind, seeing me as healthy and strong and handsome." He certainly didn't seem healthy to himself. He was too skinny and pale and didn't look appealing naked.

Distracted again by the drawing, he wondered if he would tear this one up as well. The question surprised him, both by the hesitation and suddenness. "Um, well." He sighed, feeling the sadness he'd tried to push away since their deaths. "Before I came here, before I started all this, I lived in a little village south of here. Last winter, my mother fell ill. My father took care of her while I worked the land until he fell sick as well. They both died and I moved here." The blond didn't say anymore, simple taking another cookie and crumbling it between his slim fingers.

Francis raised his blue eyes once he heard the boy said that he didn't think he was attractive. Soon enough he smiled a little, an expression that conveyed an air of "You are kidding, aren't you?" He took a deep breath, knowing too well that nothing he would say could convince Matthew otherwise, that he thought he was a good looking boy and that he felt extremely attracted to him. It wasn't something it could control: how attracted he was to Matthew. Was it the lovely eyes? The wavy blonde hair? The sweet voice, meek behaviour? He didn't know. But to him, this boy was very attractive.

He listened more of less to the boy's life story, busy with his drawing once more. Yet he showed that he was listening, nodding ever so slightly at every sentence. But quite frankly, he was too busy with the shading of his simple little drawing to really take in what was being said to him. But he understood that it was a tragic tale and that Matthew had no choice other than being here. He looked back at Matthew once he realized he was done telling him the little story. "I'm sorry. I didn't know things were so bad." He now felt compassion, and at the same time, he was under the impression that he should do something to help this young man. Once he was done drawing, he looked at the sketch for a moment before he put it away, not really satisfied by it. "Now then... maybe we should get started."

Matthew was glad to have someone to listen to his background, as short as he made it. It made him feel as if there were someone here to record him, that his presence wouldn't just be erased should he go missing like to many other workers like him did. There would be someone who knew about him and thus, might worry. Even if he was kinda crazy and eccentric.

He wanted to see what the man was drawing, to watch him in his art, but a cup was in the way and he was too timid to move it and risk a backlash. When Francis put it away he was a bit saddened that he hadn't showed it to him, but accepted it. "Um, get started with what?"

Now the fear was coming back. Even if this odd, rich man had said he wanted him as a muse, that didn't mean he didn't also want to have sex with him. And what if he didn't agree to it? He'd already paid him for the night, so he could just go to the man who had brought him here and complain. Matthew would get beaten and he'd be given another whore to sleep with, one who didn't have qualms about where life had dumped him. But what if he did take up his offer to be his muse, what if he didn't pay him for his nights? He would still be in debt to him a thousand times over for getting him off the street corners, would he consider his bed warmed every night as due gratitude?

Francis looked up to the ceiling, as if he was in thought. It was just a gesture, but he did wonder if Matthew was so oblivious. He had already told him, after all, that he wanted the boy as a muse and that he was willing to spend time with him, simply drawing and painting. He walked out from the other side of the counter and gestured for the boy to come. "Follow me."

He went to a locked door, at the end of the room. He took out his keys and unlocked the door, before he put his keys away once more. He smiled reassuringly at Matthew and gestured for him to go in first. Behind the door was a spiral staircase that seemed to go up to the attic. It led to a wooden door, which Francis opened. He pushed Matthew in, gently, and then turned on the lights. They revealed a nice apartment, which was probably much warmer than the mansion Matthew had previously been to. All the furniture was made of dark wood, the walls and ceiling were of a nice, yellowish white, and the curtains were burgundy red. Warm and soft light shone from discreet yet classy lamps. Also, the same artistic materials were scattered here and there. "Welcome to my secondary home!" Francis declared in a sort of proud tone. He did like this place more than the stuffy mansion. He stepped in and looked at Matthew from head to toe. "Yesterday, you were sort of... well, nervous and unnatural. Today, I just want you to sit or lie down on this couch and look natural. You don't have to get undressed. I want to do more than one sketch today."

The thin blond swallowed nervously when Francis came around the counter, wondering if he had done something wrong. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, especially around this lovely handsome Frenchman. He was a bit curious when he motioned him along and got off the stool without much thought. He did like the cafe and wanted to see more of it, for it was quite beautiful in a messy, casual way that Matthew had never considered before.

He trailed his fingertips over the wooden stair rail, glancing back at Francis before ascending the spiraling steps, tilting his head back as he climbed, looking around at all the subtle decorations that came with having an high class establishment. When they entered the little apartment, Matthew looked surprised, having expected an attic or storage, not this lovely abode. "Ah." He felt the urge to look around, to run his hands over the sleek, soft wood, or make feel the texture of the wallpaper, maybe play with the canvases or paintbrushes that were strewn about. It surprised him a little that the artist would have another home like this when he had the beautiful mansion all to himself, but he supposed that maybe the other wanted something to himself, that could be his rather than his family's.

"More sketches?" He asked curiously, breathing a soft sigh of relief when he was told that he didn't have to strip today. He just had to sit on the couch and let Francis draw him today? Should he tell him that he was naturally nervous so he wasn't all that unnatural? He supposed he ought to just comply with what he had asked, seeing how he was getting paid to sit. "Um, sure." He murmured, glad that he didn't have ornate, elaborate furniture in this home. The couch was a simple tête-à-tête, so Matthew sank down onto one half, naturally facing the other side of the couch. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at Francis. "Is this alright?"

Francis was quite glad to see delight in those meek eyes. He was obviously happy that his guest was enjoying the appearance of his apartment. After all, there was some sort of effort behind the appearance of the carefree, 'laissé aller' appearance of his dwelling. All those things that made the apartment look messy, as well as the café, were a product of the imagination and hard work of Francis' imagination. Artists, after all, were not always interested in pristine walls and vases of fine Chinese porcelain. No, they were interested in a warm, cozy atmosphere that would let them stain the floors while creativity was rushing in. This was what Francis had been aiming for. Also, Matthew was very right: Francis had not always gotten along with his father. And so, he had purchased the place to keep himself away from the stuffy, 'anti-bohème', bourgeois paternal figure.

As Matthew was sitting down on the couch, Francis was taking his sketch book as well as his charcoal. He loved the feel of the charcoal. It was messy a little, but it gave a nice, warm and neglected appearance to any drawing. He thought that it would fit very well this boy who, well... lacked classical refinement. He sat in front of him and looked at the position he had adopted. A little stuffy, actually, but classical and sweet. "It is quite alright, as long as you are comfortable. Now..." He looked around and spotted a vase of flowers that were not exactly fresh anymore. "I would like of you to look at this vase. It will give a nice angle to your face. It looks more natural than you staring at me." He smiled encouragingly and started to draw.

Matthew watched as Francis pulled out his things, noting that the sketch book was filled with high grade paper, good for drawing and pricey. It showed just a bit of his wealth in his art, setting him apart from the masses flowing out from the Academies. His art would be more desirable because it was made on excellent materials that would last longer than those of poorer artists, and would thus be worth the investment.

Nervous as he was, he still couldn't help but relax the more Francis drew. It was odd, but just the light scratch of charcoal over the paper lulled him into a calm state and he smiled a little as he stared over at the wilting flowers. If this was what being a muse was, then he could certainly get used to such a relaxing atmosphere. It had been ages since he felt he could just unwind like this and it was most certainly welcome.

Maybe if he just let Francis take care of him...maybe he could give up something in exchange. Just maybe. Would the man who had taken him here even care if he just disappeared suddenly? Would he look for him? Or would he just go and find some other poor soul to enslave? The small blond adopted a thoughtful expression as he leaned his head against the couch, his tiny smile turning into a little frown.

Francis kept very quiet as he worked, raising his gaze only to see that the more he drew, the more his muse seemed relaxed. It was very simple art work, a modest sketch of what he was saying: all of Matthew's body, plus the couch and the wallpaper. After a moment, he noticed that the boy's expression was different. "Is something bothering you?"

Of course, it didn't stop him from continuing his work. He was focusing on the details of the decor, such as shading and what not, before he attempted to immortalize the lovely features of the other male.

Francis didn't have a lot of muses. Sometimes, he would stop to do the quick sketch of a woman sitting at the cafe, or he would draw a shady looking man smoking a cigarette in an alley. But those pictures, usually, were done from memory. It was the very first time that he had chosen a particular boy to work with. It was the first time that he was paying someone to keep still.

Matthew looked up, surprised at the question. Then he realized that he must have seen his smile fall, he had been looking at him for the past ten minutes. "Well...I was just thinking about what would happen if I did become your muse. I mean, would I have to get an apartment? And how often would I have to come sit for you?" He nibbled on his bottom lip a bit, wondering if he ought to go further and tell him the rest of it.

It wasn't as if there was anyone else to tell, and he already knew what he did. "I was also thinking about what would happen where I live now...Would he come after me and try to get me to come work for him again? Or would he just go to some other town and convince some other poor soul to take my place?" He could stand thinking of either of those. The people who controlled the prostitutes in this city were ruthless if they were stiffed. Who's to say that he wouldn't force Matthew back or do something to Francis? And the thought of another poor boy or girl being forced into something like this was just unbearable.

Francis put his papers down and listened to what worried the other boy. He listened to him without even interrupting him, even if it took most of his self control. The French loved to talk, after all.

And so what worried the young boy was his current job and if it could be a full time job. He at back in his chair and sighed very softly. "You don't really choose to become a muse or not. I'm the one who chose you. You inspire me. Of course, I'd like to spend more time with you, to observe you and to know you better. I'll take you whenever you are available."

He wondered for a moment why he actually had to explain all this to Matthew. Of course he was happy to pay him, but the more he thought of it, the more he wanted to always be with the other boy. He wanted to reach out and touch him. He felt like undressing him and tasting him. But of course, Matthew didn't need to know. "I don't know what this man would do... but you know, maybe I could make him an offer in exchange for you..." He smiled very naturally at the end of this sentence. "If you leave him and become my muse, you will be free to do anything. You could find work and get a new apartment, or you could even live with me."

Heh, it sounded like he didn't have a choice in anything in his life. Either having his parents die, coming to this new city and being forced into his work, or becoming this man's muse, it was all chosen for him by some other person or thing. Although, at least being his muse wouldn't harm anyone directly. And it sounded like it would be an easy life even if he did get another job.

"What could you offer him?" He asked, wondering if he would pay him some ungodly amount of money for his freedom. "And what job could I get? I'm nothing but a simple son of a farmer who can do nothing but suck cock in dark alleys." The blond bit down on his bottom lip roughly, suddenly feeling very sullen about his lot in life. He drew his knees up to his chest, forgetting about Francis' drawing. What good could he do if he had no skills in order to get a job? He couldn't just lay about sitting for Francis' paintings or drawings, getting fat off sweets. The only thing he knew how to do was work the land and please men and neither could help him very much in Paris.

"Why couldn't I be born as you?" Matthew asked softly, staring at the floor in front of him as he hugged his knees. "Why couldn't I be born where I could save my parents or protect myself? I can't even make beautiful things like you can. I'm not smart or wealthy enough to get into the University, or the Academy. I can't be a politician or own a shop. I can't do anything. I'm useless..."

Obviously, Francis was expecting this boy to have his own life, even if he wouldn't mind providing for them both, which was something he sure would not mind doing. But already he knew Matthew was too kind and hardworking to actually let someone else feed him.

When asked about what he would give to the man in exchange for Matthew, he was about to answer that he would just ask the man what he wanted. Most of these men who had prostitutes under their care wouldn't mind letting go or a whore against a good amount of money: it meant a mouth less to feed for a while and a good amount against someone that they could just replace when they wanted more. But before he could answer, Matthew was curling up and talking about how useless he felt. He looked at him for a while, his own expression turning to compassion more than pity.

After a moment, he stood and went to sit next to Matthew. He gently wrapped an arm around the younger male and gently rubbed his shoulder in a way that was meant to be reassuring. "Matthew..." He sighed softly, wondering where to start. "You are not useless and you have more power than you think. With enough determination, you can learn to be anything you want. I know you think everything was given to me on a silver spoon, but opening this shop wasn't easy. Going against my family and seeing my mother cry and my angry father was very difficult." He smiled a little and gently lifted Matthew's head, stroking his cheek softly. "You have the power to change your fate. And I want to help you have a better life."

The little blond jumped when he felt the cushion dip beside him, but he didn't look up from his knees. He didn't want to have this beautiful man see him cry. But his face was gently turned up, a warm arm curled around his shoulder and back. It was reassuring and comforting and he longed for it after so much time on his own. Francis was being so wonderfully nice to him and he was just being ungrateful and pitiful.

"You're so kind to me." He whispered softly, resting his head on the Frenchman's shoulder, face streaked with tears as he curled up beside him. "Why are you being so kind?" It didn't make sense to him, had he been this weak in his old village, they would have told him to grow a spine and go out in the fields and get some work done. If he cried at his current house, he got a slap across the face. But here was Francis, holding him and telling him that he could be anything he wanted if only he tried. "And I don't have money or a job. How can I live here without being a burden on you?"

Even if he did live with Francis, he didn't want him to cater to his every need. He had grown up working for everything he needed and the thought of having someone else do it for him was unappealing, even if they were doing it out of kindness. He hadn't even finished his schooling past basic math and reading. You didn't need to know history or grammar to work a farm, you just needed to know how to count your money and crops and write it down and make sure the agreements you signed were what the other man said they were.

He was glad that the boy was leaning into him, and so the hand that had raised this adorable face went to caress those lovely blonde and wonderfully wavy tresses. He never told Matthew to stop crying, knowing that life was hard for the time being and that everyone needed to be told that life was a beautiful thing and that it could get better.

At the first question, he simply chuckled. "I don't think I'm being specially nice. I just think you are a sweet boy and that you deserve better." Obviously, anyone deserved better than being an unwilling prostitute far away from home. This was probably the worst possible scenario for anyone. And then he was asked about money and a job. He thought about it for a moment before he looked back at the young man. "Well... Right now, you could work in the café with me. I would teach you how to make the food, and then if you want you can go and work in other restaurants if you like it."

"But you are." Matthew insisted, sniffling lightly and resting his head on Francis' shoulder again, one hand absently clutching the older man's shirt. "Even if I do deserve better, here in Paris everyone's so uppity and stiff and no one cares about the little people and how they have to fight to survive. You're not like those people." And he was glad he wasn't. Had Francis been like those people, he probably would have taken him that first night instead of painting him.

Working in the cafe sounded nice. It'd smell good all day and he wouldn't be accosted by men all the time. And he could sleep at night! It was hard to sleep during the day because there were no curtains over his window. "You'd really let me cook with you?" The thought of being in the same kitchen with Francis was alien to him. The only thing he really cooked was what was necessary when his parents died. Making sweets and good food seemed out of his reach. "I may not be very good at it..."

Ah well, it was true Parisians tended to be a little snobbish, but Francis had soon learned compassion and tolerance for those who had less than him. This was probably why he always treated people well. Except, maybe, for the English. But it was fine, they never dared cross what little water separated their countries. Mindlessly, Francis caressed the soft, wavy hair of the other male. "Not everyone in Paris is mean and cruel. It's just that you were unlucky."

When Matthew mentioned cooking with him again, he nodded. "Of course I would let you. You will learn to make proper food. It's not all that complicated." He smiles reassuringly. "I would love to have you as my assistant. And you could stay here in this apartment for now."

Not everyone indeed. Francis was the kindest, most generous person he had ever meet. Soothed by the gentle hand stroking his hair, something his mother used to do to calm him, he relaxed against the older man. "It seems that unlucky is the way my life tends to go." He said, not really whining or anything, just stating what was a fact to him. "But it looks like it's turning around right now."

"This apartment?" That sounded far too good to be true. Surrounded by this wonderfully comfortable, casual apartment, within arm's reach of more paint and canvas than he had ever seen short of a barn raising. "That would be absolutely wonderful." Tears welled up in his eyes again, this time from happiness. He rubbed at his eyes, sniffling a bit. "I can't imagine how I'll repay you for all this."


End file.
